"Jaime Vegas. Oh, my sweet Lord, it is you!" She took both my hands and clasped them as she gazed up in limpid adoration. "You're my idol. I've been following your career since I was-" a girlish laugh, "-knee-high to a grasshopper, as my daddy would say."

A cameraman and a journalist appeared behind her, recording every frame and word. I tilted my head to my best angle and swept my hair back so it wouldn't block my profile. The lens inched my way.

"That's so sweet of you," I said. "And you must be…?"

"Angelique… but my friends call me Angel. The Angel of the South."

"Oh, of course. Let me guess, you're the third spiritualist."

"I am. Can you believe that?" An earsplitting squeal of a giggle. "My big chance to work with Jaime Vegas. I was so afraid you'd retire before I got the chance."

I gave a throaty laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not retiring for a while."

Around us, the party had stopped, everyone watching the drama unfold.

"So, do you have any theories on Marilyn's death?" I asked.

"Oh, it was such a tragedy," she said. "Someone so young and beautiful, called to heaven too soon. My daddy-he's a minister, you know-always says-"

"I meant theories on how she died."

A wave of titters.

"Oh, yes, of course. Well, er, that's what we're here to learn, isn't it? To free her from the limbo of a tragic passing, to discover who wronged so innocent a soul."

"So you think she was murdered? Are you leaning toward the Kennedys or the Mafia?"

"Oh, my Lord, that is such a beautiful dress. So daring. My daddy would die if I wore something like that. You're so brave!" She waved to the cameraman. "Doug, you have to get a shot of the two of us, for my press release."

I pictured that shot and realized how I'd look towering over the fresh-faced, virginal blond.

"Unless you don't want to…" she said, her eyes wide with innocence.

"And miss the chance to get my picture taken with a rising star? Never. Doug, hon, can you make sure I get a copy of it?"

"Absolutely. Is there a mailing address?"

"Just bring it up to my room. Top of the stairs."

He grinned. "Be happy to, ma'am."

I flirted with Doug as he set up the shot, then struck a pose that would give Angelique's daddy a rise in spite of himself.

ANGELINE WAS going to be a problem. Her sly jabs I could handle-you don't spend a lifetime acting without learning how to deal with two-faced starlets. But television is so much more youth-oriented than the stage. Put me on camera next to a slip of a girl barely out of high school and the network execs who were considering my show might start thinking they were making overtures to the wrong spiritualist. I could sex it up-I could out-vamp her any day-but it might not be enough. I'd have to play this one carefully, prove I wasn't just the "sexy redhead" but the better performer. And, as it turned out, I was going to get my chance a lot sooner than I expected.

Becky had barely finished introducing Angelique to everyone when some wit came up with the idea of a "test" seance. As long as you had three spiritualists in a room, why not put them to work providing the entertainment?

"That's a wonderful idea," Becky said. "We should tape it too. For the DVD extras."

"There's going to be a DVD?" Angelique said.

Becky grinned. "There's always a DVD. "What about Tansy Lane?"

"Who?" someone asked.

"Starlet," another responded. "From the seventies. Murdered right next door, I think. The crime was never solved."

I struggled to recall the case. I wasn't big on Hollywood legends, but because Tansy had been a former child star, her case had struck a chord. After outgrowing her starring role on a top-rated sitcom about a fairy changeling, she'd faded away, only to reappear again at twenty with a headline-making comeback. She'd not only beat the odds, but KO'd them, winning an Emmy. And that's when both her career and her life ended. Shot to death at a postawards party in Brentwood.

Murmurs of excitement ran through the crowd. Grady glanced at Claudia. I kept my mouth shut, my expression intrigued but not committed, waiting to see how Grady would play it.

"How mysterious were these circumstances?" he finally asked.

"I've heard there was satanism involved," the guard piped in. "That's why no one saw anything. They were conducting a secret Hollywood black magic rite."

Grady's face lit up. Satanic rites were his specialty. He found evidence of them everywhere. He and Claudia exchanged a look.

She cleared her throat. "As per Mr. Grady's contract, he is supposed to receive a minimum of six hours' notice before any attempted spirit communications. He's willing to forgo that tonight. However, I insist that he still be allowed as much time as possible to complete his mental preparations, so he must be granted the final position."

Taking the final spot meant he'd have our work to build on, plus the chance to leave the most lasting impression.

Becky glanced at me, but I didn't have any such stipulations in my contract. I could hit the ground running anytime, anywhere, so I saved my contract demands for important things like billing position and wardrobe allowance.

"It's all yours, Bradford." I smiled, then slipped in, "I'll take the final spot next time."

"Excellent," Becky said. "It's settled then. Angelique will go first, Jaime second-"

"Oh, no," Angelique breathed, her face filling with genuine horror. "I couldn't go before Ms. Vegas. She's the star; I should follow her."

I shook my head. "It's your first big seance and I insist you take the premier position."

She opened her mouth, but there was little she could say to that. I accepted Grady's proffered arm and we headed upstairs.

WHEN I realized they planned to hold this seance in the garden, I thought of the presence I'd felt there earlier and a chill ran through me. As bizarre as it might seem, I avoid mixing necromancy and spiritualism whenever possible. I use my powers to give me an edge, but under controlled circumstances. When I'm booking a show in a new city, I always visit the venues myself first, to make sure there aren't any resident ghosts. Nothing buggers up a fake seance more than having a real ghost screaming in your ear.

So I stepped into that garden, steeled against the first sign that my reluctant spirit had returned. But, to my relief, the presence of others seemed to scare it off. Or, if I was really lucky, it had given up and moved on.

We stole into the gardens like schoolkids cutting out on a class trip, snickering and whispering, hoping the neighbors didn't overhear.

It was midnight. The witching hour, which I'm sure the writers would make a big deal of when they wrote the introduction to this segment. The full moon and the wind rustling through the bushes didn't hurt.

"Too bad we can't do it next door," someone said. "Right at the site of the murder. That's where she was found, wasn't it?"

"Near the pool house." Becky turned to the cameraman. "Can we get it in the backdrop?"

"Perhaps we could get some dirt from the site," Grady said.

Becky looked at the security crew. "Any volunteers?"

"I will," I said.

All heads turned my way.

"Oh, come on," I said. "What will film better? A security guard jumping that fence? Or me?" I turned to Angelique. "Unless you want to."

She backed away as if I'd suggested she desecrate a grave. "Oh, no. I couldn't. My dress-"

"Then it'll have to be me." I pulled off my sling-backs and handed them to the nearest guard. "Now which of you boys is going to boost me over that fence?"

SO I snuck into the neighbor's yard and swiped dirt from behind their pool house. By the time I got back, my feet were filthy, my hair had twigs caught in it and I was sure there was a dirt smear or two on my face. But I got my round of cheers-and my laughs- and some footage of a cute young guard washing my feet in the fountain.